The Path Less Travelled
by Cassop
Summary: Minerva McGonagall has spent a lifetime regretting the road she didn't take. But what if Fate also grieved for the dead of the Wizarding World, and chose a champion to take the other path? An intelligent take on the bog-standard "do-over". Politics, deep magics & corruption, as Minerva learns to juggle being a mother and playing the most dangerous game of chess she's ever faced.
1. There and Back Again

_Summary_: Minerva McGonagall has spent a lifetime regretting the road she didn't take. But what if the gods also grieved for the dead of the Wizarding World, and chose a champion to take the other path?

* * *

_Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,  
__I took the one less traveled by,  
__And that has made all the difference._

The Road Not Taken, **Robert Frost**

* * *

_Being reborn_, Minerva decided, _is downright uncomfortable_. Her first breath was an undignified cough, and then a painful hiss as her lungs inflated, trying to remember the steps of a once-familiar pattern. _Rather like drowning in reverse, and **positively** unpleasant._

What she _really_ needed was a good, stiff drink. A couple of fingers of that rather excellent Scotch she had in her cabinet, and -

Memory reasserted itself as she took in her surroundings. _Not _Hogwarts, then. The small, grey flat that had served as her quarters outside of Hogwarts grew clearer as she blinked away _being dead_. One could (rather optimistically) call it a bedsit, but whatever it was, it was bare and uninviting, and it simply wouldn't do for what she had planned. The raw bones of this place were as ugly and unfinished as she had felt at this point.

_She remembered._ 1981.

It was much earlier in the timeline, of course. At this point she had still been choking on grief, sorrow rearing fierce and unexpected with every new day. Being here ripped the scab off a wound long healed over, and Minerva learned that her mind might be one hundred and twenty-nine years of age, but her body - _this body - _was in command of her emotions. And _this _Minerva certainly hadn't mastered Occlumency yet, not at the age of forty-six. Her younger body was a maelstrom of feeling and _need_.

_Angus MacGregor_, her heart beat out. _You dear, silly fool._

She stood up abruptly from the dusty floor in front of the fireplace… and just as abruptly sat down again. From her position, now sprawled untidily across the bare floorboards, Minerva considered that if she'd had to recall how to breathe, it made sense that walking (or even standing) might need a more cautious approach.

Minerva growled under her breath, and the sound, hoarse and ill-tempered, was enough to shock her. Her voice echoed like a slap in the empty room. Her hands had flown to her mouth, and she looked at them now, at the pale strip of skin where her wedding ring had lain. As her skin was pale, it didn't show overmuch, but she could see it. _This_ body still felt naked without its familiar weight. It had not yet shed itself of the tendency to twist that slender band of white gold, as she had always done when lost in thought.

Her mouth tightened into a firm line, and she blinked.

_Enough, _Minerva chided herself gently. _They are long dead, my dear, and grieving will not bring them back._

Last time, it had only been with the twilight years of her life that the rage at her loss had dimmed. Now, she forced her body - newly widowed, newly bereft of her family - to remember that there was so much more to be done.

_She had tarried long enough. _Time was ticking, and there was a kidnapping to plan.

* * *

TWO roads diverged in a yellow wood,  
And sorry I could not travel both  
And be one traveler, long I stood  
And looked down one as far as I could  
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,  
And having perhaps the better claim  
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;  
Though as for that, the passing there  
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay  
In leaves no step had trodden black.  
Oh, I marked the first for another day!  
Yet knowing how way leads on to way  
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh  
Somewhere ages and ages hence:  
_Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,  
_ _I took the one less traveled by,  
_ _And that has made all the difference._

* * *

Hello Fanfiction.

_Madre, _what a long time it's been since I dabbled in your waters and dipped my toes into the current! Too long, I'd say.

Did you miss me? I rather doubt it, but then I never really made a go of it before. Please let me know what you think. Minerva McGonagall has to be one of my favourite characters in Fanfiction, and yet I rarely find a Minerva-centric tale as rich in nuance, culture and history as I desire. I'm so excited! It's such a tired choice, to opt for an AU, but I hope my very own version will be infused with such life, peppered with enough humour, charm and _story _that you won't be able to stop.

Happy reading. Let me know what you think? I'm going to post the next chapter later today if there's any life at all on this!

Much love and laughter,

_Cassop_


	2. Skin Deep

Dear you,

I'm surprised and delighted by the response to this small snippet from my imagination. I'm rather shy of the things my mind dredges up and deems appropriate to spin into words, sometimes, so it was truly wonderful to have such encouragement. Reader, thank you so much for taking the opportunity to share your opinions.

Enjoy the next chapter. It gives a little bit of background, and helps lay the foundation for the journey to come. And what a journey it will be! I'm so excited about this story. :)

Much love &amp; laughter,

Cassop

* * *

"One of the most extraordinary things about about dogs is their total lack of self-consciousness.  
A dog never questions its own beauty, its own worth. A dog just accepts itself and lives for the moment."

― E.M. Crane, _Skin Deep_

"Utter tosh. Dogs are unaware of their inferiority to cats - and other creatures in general - because they are drooling, incapable fleabags. A cat's dignity is entirely appropriate, as they can boast the intelligence that dogs so utterly lack."

~ _Minerva McGonagall, in conversation with Severus Snape,_ August 2011

* * *

**_Your wand, please._**

The shadow in front of her held out a hand, and Minerva McGonagall obeyed.

They were standing on the brink of eternity, which rocketed upwards in a huge, neverending sheet of inky infinity. It held all the fires of every soul ever to die and was both terrifying and gloriously, breathtakingly _beautiful._ The strong, forceful gale that whipped at her robes and hair was utterly silent, and Minerva McGonagall could have sworn she could smell sea salt.

Eternity beckoned with the whispered, gentle promise of rest. One last leap, and then? Rest for her weary, aching bones, for a soul worn and chipped and fractured in battle again and again. The dark river tugged at her ankles, a little playfully. It was cool, silky, refreshing. Somehow, even though her feet had followed the current here, she had barely noticed its presence.

Guilt stained her. War had wearied her. Grief and fire had forged something raw and rather precious, and sheer, determined stubbornness had meant she was _useful_. She was by no means perfect, and she knew it.

There was something so deeply _right_ about everything ending with one final wand-weighing, when her adult life had begun with the ceremonial wand-weighing upon the attainment of her mastery. She remembered the icy, painful fire of the Mastery tattoo inking itself across the delicate bones of her shoulder at the behest of the Guild Master's wand, and her Master's impassive face, which had cracked to show his honest delight and approval in his student.

Her wand rolled onto the shadow's palm, and her breath caught a little. Faithful companion. As scarred and marked as its witch was, yet still strong and unyielding. Still useful.

**_All you have ever wanted is to be useful._**

The shadow's words weren't spoken. She wasn't sure it even had a mouth, but the words were there in her mind all the same. It wasn't a question, but she found herself nodding her head anyway. Somehow she wasn't surprised that it knew her thoughts. The shadow held within its palm the sum of all those years, and she knew this final weighing did not judge the heft of that little sliver of wood.

It was so much more than that.

"I was foolish, and they suffered because of it." Her voice rasped slightly.

The shadow nodded. It was not condemning, but the affirmation still tore at her. It merely looked at her, looked at this woman called Minerva McGonagall, and _knew_ her.

**_We leave the world somewhat different than we found it, for better or worse, daughter. Are you not content with the mark you left behind?_**

She thought about her legacy: empty and hollow. No grandchildren to warm the twilight years of life. One by one, steadfast friends fading into eternity, embarking on that adventure while she lingered, all alone once more.

She thought of the aftermath of the war, of her grief and betrayal and anger at a man she had trusted, but whom she had recognised with blinding clarity was a monster in his belief at his own infallibility.

_Albus._

She thought of the scars left on the war's survivors. Whether you could see them or not, the broken society left behind had not thrived. It had continued in its poisoned, clouded way, struggling to learn because it had never done so before.

And she thought of Harry; how deeply she had failed him. How he had been left marked and faded by war before he had even had the chance to be a child. She had seen the shadows in his eyes when he had stumbled into the Great Hall that first night, tiny and vulnerable. They had only grown.

_Harry._

Harry, who had forgiven her so quickly for her many failures. Harry, who had become so much greater than they had allowed him to be, and yet was so much less because he had never supposed he was allowed to be great.

Her answer was a low moan, a keening grief that bubbled from her chest and flung itself into a hoarsely uttered word.

"No."

The shadow shifted. **_Would you begin again, if We asked?_**

Hope flared, and Minerva McGonagall's eyes locked onto the Shadow.

"With all my heart."

Fire. Cleansing, pure fire, unlike anything even the Guild magic could ever wrought. She realised she was naked, that she was utterly bare.

**_Those marked by eternity belong to Us, dear one. Life is yours to do with as you will. You are enough._**

An echo of something – a shadow of fierce and tender pride, of delight in her very soul – impressed itself on her. Minerva McGonagall felt her spine straighten, felt the weight of guilt not hers to bear lift.

She felt cherished.

_And then she was drowning backwards._


	3. The Butterfly Effect

**Chapter Three**

**"The Butterfly Effect"**

* * *

_"Curiosity killed the cat," Fesgao remarked, his dark eyes unreadable._  
_Aly rolled her eyes. Why did everyone say that to her? "People always forget the rest of the saying," she complained. "'And satisfaction brought it back."_

_― _Tamora Pierce_, **Trickster's Choice**_

* * *

Dry. Cool. Spicy. Sour. Earthy. Bloody. Fragrant. Rank.

The discordant chorus of scents all demanded to be smelt and catalogued, all vying for her attention. Minerva resisted the urge to bolt, or take another deep breath to steady herself (both of which would have been a particularly bad idea), and tried to calm her twitching, over-sensitive nose. Filius might believe that it was an advantage for animagus traits to manifest in human form after a long-term mastery of one's Animal, but she firmly disagreed in situations such as this.

A normal human would not be able to identify much beyond a certain spicy musk hanging low and strong in the large apothecary, but a cat animagus such as she was at the mercy of a particularly rambunctious orchestra of aromas, and they had just begun the first movement of Mussorgsky's _Night on Bald Mountain._

Minerva brutally quashed the nonsensical urge to flee, and went about the business of testing the quality of Jigger's dried sunberries and boxthorn root. The dusky blue globes should be dried in an even layer in natural sunlight, and gathered up when they had shrivelled to an inky black raisin. She sniffed them to check for the slightly sour smell. These specimens were acceptable, and would do. They were an acidic foil, used to help neutralise an alkali base in potions. Boxthorn root, which seemed to the unexperienced eye rather unassuming, was (when rehydrated) a far superior substitute for its overused cousin birch.

She paused in running her fingers over the shrivelled root, and tutted. This was at least a year old, if not more. There wouldn't be even a dram of the sap left. The woman became aware of a tall figure behind her and said bluntly,

"Your boxthorn is bone dry."

"I know," the figure bit out, and the well-known voice was a sharp shock, resonating down her spine. She took a deep breath (promptly regretting it), and turned to look into the achingly familiar visage of a once-dear friend, who was currently considering her with some suspicion, and not the accord she was half-expecting. He was not the confident, snarky professional she was used to. This thin, hunched youth was in some ways quite his opposite.

"Mr Snape," she greeted him, and upon seeing the knots at his shoulder, corrected herself. "I beg your pardon. _Apprentice_ Snape." He relaxed infinitesimally, as though he had expected that she wouldn't recognise his position.

"Master McGonagall," he returned, in recognition of the knots on hers. They were more intricate than those of a mere apprentice, and hers were shaded with the rather rigid helices of the Transfiguration Guild. Each knot was uniquely matched to the mastery of the individual's subject, and the complexity and number of knots was significant. Severus' trio proclaimed him in his third year of Potions apprenticeship. Minerva's signalled that she had attained a High Mastery of Transfiguration, only one degree below Cardinal Mastery.

"You must almost be a Journeyman," she responded warmly - and, as his face assumed a slightly wary cast, she cursed inwardly, for it was clearly with more warmth than she had ever spoken with as his professor. She spoke from years of friendship, and although he could not comprehend the why, Severus must surely see the easy sincerity. It must be confusing, from a Head of House who had been rather remote from him.

"I am not sure that my Master… believes I am ready," he uttered quietly, and the bitterness he was attempting to hide resounded in his voice. Minerva looked at him sharply. Now that she thought of it, that he was three years out of Hogwarts and not yet a Journeyman was an odd circumstance.

"Nonsense! Horace believed you to be only two years away from attaining it upon your graduation, at the very most." It was not difficult to see the way in which his shoulders straightened at the blunt, unaffected praise, but his mouth was still tight.

"I - thank you, Master McGonagall." His tone implied that the conversation was at an end, but she could not leave the conversation there. She knew only too well the challenges faced as a half-blood trying to earn their way with the Guilds. Prejudice ran strong and deep and thick, and any who weren't pureblood would need to work twice - nay, three times - as hard as their privileged counterparts.

"Who is your Master?" she asked curiously, and he looked slightly puzzled.

"Master Jiggers. I work here." He sounded slightly surprised that she hadn't realised the connection. She had been slightly embarrassed at her assumption that he worked there upon seeing his apprenticeship knots, but it appeared she had been correct previously. Minerva was surprised. Master Jiggers was only a knot above Journeyman, and had attained his Mastery two decades before with no further advancement. In an instant, she recognised that he must chafe at having so apt and knowledgable an apprentice. _He must realise that his pupil will be his equal, if not senior, in rank within the next five years, _she mused, and growled at the smallness and pettiness of a man who wished to retard brilliance. He was betraying the sacred bond he had been entrusted with!

"Severus," a smooth, nasal voice inserted. Severus stiffened, his face smoothing and posture straightening to be almost painfully rigid with the appearance of the apothecary's owner: a large, thickset man. Minerva watched the interaction with dismay, feeling the wrongness of such a reaction between Apprentice and Master keenly. There should never be a frisson of fear in an apprentice's behaviour, and from the set of his shoulders and the shadow in his eyes, the young man was certainly afraid. "Please do not bother our customers. If you must be _lollygagging_, do so on your own terms and outside of working hours." The words were rich with loathing. Jiggers' distaste for his pupil underlay each syllable, and the impassiveness of his expression could not quite mask it. His small, dark eyes glittered with malice.

To his credit, the young man did not allow the embarrassment of being reprimanded in front of another Master to colour his response. His words were even and barely hitched as he said, "I am sorry, Master." The flush of his cheeks and determined set of his mouth betrayed his mortification though. Minerva seethed. Criticism should always be given privately, and to do so in her presence was a move calculated only to humiliate an apprentice, not teach. She was quick to respond.

"If anyone should be accused of lollygagging, it should be myself, Master Jiggers. I must confess I was sating my curiosity to the well-being of my former student." Jiggers coloured. He had relished the opportunity to remind his uppity little half-blood apprentice of his place, but had not considered that his comment had inferred a High Master was _lollygagging._ Minerva's tone had been heavy with irony, and the apothecary scrambled to make right his mistake. Inciting the wrath of an accomplished Domina was politically very foolish.

"I did not mean to infer -" he was betrayed into blustering, and his jaw tightened. "I beg your pardon, Madam." The slight, in not using her earned rank as a title, was minor, and Minerva didn't bat an eyelid, aware that he had decided to return to dealing as an apothecary with his customer. At least in that respect he was her equal. "May I enquire as to what you were interested in purchasing?"

"I was considering your boxthorn root, but it is sadly lacking in quality. Do you have any fresher?" Minerva's voice was poisonously sweet. Jiggers' blunt jaw clenched even further, but he jerked his head to signal that Severus should go to the stockroom and find out.

"We have no more, Master. That is the only stock we have," Severus returned with even assurance, making no move in the direction of the stockroom. His Master's eyes lit with quick fury at the cool confidence, and Minerva hastened to damp the fire she had clearly ignited. She hadn't meant to make it harder than it already was for the young man, and was regretting her heavy-handed rejoinder.

"What would you recommend in its place, then?" she asked the apprentice directly.

Uneasily avoiding his Master's livid glare, Severus' gaze became slightly distant as he considered, and he tapped his thigh with long, slender fingers. "What are you intending to use it for, if I may ask?"

Minerva was no mean brewer, and she appreciated his thoroughness. "I mean to make an anti-inflammatory balm for the joints, to combat general rather than acute pain."

His pensive expression cleared. "Would you consider making a draught, to be taken orally instead? If so, you could replace the boxthorn with turmeric-"

"Preposterous," Master Jiggers cut him off venomously. "The true alternative is obviously birch bark. I have told you before, Snape, that I will _not_ entertain your delusions for these unproven muggle remedies." His voice was bloated with revulsion.

The set of Severus' mouth was defensive, and Minerva saw a shadow of the strength he would one day have.

"It _has_ been proven. And would be to your own satisfaction if you would allow me to bring my draught before the Guild, where you would see its effectiveness in my Journeyman trials! It has been ready a full year!"

"Proven? By _**whom**_?" his Master thundered. "Muggles? Those filthy beasts could never hope to match the pharmacopeial knowledge of one who has been wizarding-raised! And if you came of _proper stock,_ rather than the spawn of a witch who has more in keeping with a Squib whore, you would know this!" The pair, Master &amp; Apprentice, were breathing heavily, facing one another. Severus' thin chest was heaving, his black eyes flashing with fury. His voice came, low and thick with anger.

"Do _not_ speak of my mother in that way."

Jiggers' countenance was mottled in his rage. "You _presume_ to tell me, you arrogant stripling, of what I may do? You shall _never_ attain the Journeyman knots! You will never amount to more than a mere apprentice, always scraping to get higher! You -" His eyes bulged as Severus' wand came to rest at his throat, and he wheezed in an impotent frenzy of emotion.

"I have _earned_ those knots," the young man choked, panting at the injustice. "You cannot take them away from me!"

Jiggers became very still, and his small eyes glittered. "Oh, I can," he said, very softly, and the malevolence had Minerva reaching for her own wand. He saw the movement and glanced at her, an expression of satisfaction gleaming in his gaze.

"Master McGonagall, I call on you as Witness," he began, and the formal words sent a frozen rush of terror through Minerva's veins. It took a moment more to penetrate the panting apprentice's mist of fury, but when it did, his arm dropped, shaking, to his side. His face was chalky white, and he fixed a look of horror on his Master, as though he couldn't quite believe what was happening.

"Severus Snape," and the voice was silky, and richly vindictive. "I find you Unteachable. I sever our sacred bond, rejecting you as my Apprentice and my Charge. You shall not learn the Potioner's Craft from me or my ilk. You shall not enter the Guild under my Sponsorship. I will take no part in your teaching, and you none of my expertise. So mote it be." The final syllables juddered into the air with a deep finality.

She had been called to Witness, and could not refuse. "So mote it be," and her voice sounded hollow even to her own ears. Minerva felt the magic respond to the Master's oath, and then the bond tearing from the young Apprentice, leaving jagged edges and oozing wounds in his core. Severus Tobias Snape screamed, and the sound was one of deep and raw anguish. Jiggers directed a look of deep satisfaction at his drooping former apprentice, and swept away, leaving Minerva to catch the too-thin body of her former pupil as he collapsed, as though his strings had been cut.

They had, in a sense. The apprenticeship bond entwined into a young person's magic. Under a good Master, it shaped them, helped grow them. With a Master like Jiggers, it was a trap. The tangled magic had enmeshed deeply, and ripping it away left gaping wounds.

Minerva held the dying man in her arms, a man who would have gone on to become a High Master before his 32nd birthday, and wondered, stricken, how in Merlin's name she had managed to get it so wrong.

* * *

Author:

Poor Minerva! She couldn't have expected such explosive action to occur all for the sake of a little boxthorn root... Or should she? Minerva McGonagall opens the Game, and a nondescript Pawn becomes a Rook.

How did you find this one? The plot begins to move forward! Never fear, for all those who are wondering about this diversion. There is method in madness, and certainly madness in my method. Look out for the next chapter! The game's afoot.

Much love and laughter,  
Cassop


End file.
